


Only With You

by prairiestar



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Sharing a Bed, mentions of Angie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiestar/pseuds/prairiestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old "stuck sharing one hotel bed" scenario, taken to its most romantic, angst-ridden, sexually conflicted extreme because Morrissey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only With You

It starts with an accident. The band’s hotel reservation is botched, so one of their rooms has a single bed instead of the usual pair. Steven and Johnny volunteer to take it.  
  
“Eh… make the best of it,” Johnny laughs. “Close quarters aren’t a problem for us, right? I’ve got stuff to play you anyway. We can sit up and work a little.”  
  
But once they’ve each showered off the grime of travel and chatted a bit, neither is in the mood to work. So Johnny strips to his boxers and undershirt and readies himself for bed, while Steven retreats to the bathroom with a bundle of clothes. He emerges moments later in one of the tour t-shirts and a baggy pair of cotton drawstring trousers, cinched to fit around his skinny hips.  
  
“I don’t usually go to bed this heavily clothed,” he remarks, plucking at the fabric with a theatrical look of suspicion and distaste. Johnny opens his mouth to ask what he means, then shuts it when he realizes that obviously Steven must sleep naked when not being forced to share a bed.  
  
“Sorry,” Johnny offers, climbing into bed. Steven shrugs and slips beneath the covers, fusses with his pillow for a moment and then settles in at the far edge of the bed. Slightly awkward goodnights are said, lights are extinguished and backs are turned to each other. Sleep comes quickly to them both.  
  
When Johnny wakes what feels like only a second later, he finds himself momentarily unable to remember where he is. Although technically it's still night, the quality of the light has changed enough to indicate that several hours must have passed. At first all he registers is the soft scratch of hotel linens and the far away hiss of traffic on rainy streets. Then his mind comes into focus, and he recognizes the warmth of Steven’s body pressed against his own.  
  
He has never been wrapped up in someone else’s arms like this before. Not since he was a child, anyway. Cradled tight, tucked close to Steven’s chest, their hands clasped together in front of Johnny.  
  
He shifts to see if he can slide out of Steven’s embrace without waking him, but Steven only holds him tighter and _hmmm_ -s softly in his sleep.  
  
So Johnny lays still. He doesn’t mind, although he feels a bit silly. It’s pleasant being held like this, warm and secure like a swaddled infant. Steven’s breath puffs light and rhythmic against the back of his neck, and as he relaxes and drifts gradually back towards sleep Johnny feels his sleeping friend’s lips graze against his skin, feather light and seemingly without purpose. Blood rushes to his cock, but he tells himself it’s innocent, even more harmless than their usual flirtation. Steven’s asleep for pity’s sake, and doesn’t know what he’s doing. So when he nuzzles his face into Johnny’s hair and sighs blissfully, it’s alright for Johnny to answer with an indulgent sigh of his own and squirm a little further down into the lovely warmth under the covers.  
  
Johnny’s almost again asleep when he feels Steven’s hips begin to rock gently against his. The soft gasp it draws from his lips is more pleasure than surprise. It’s strange, the pressure of an erection against his backside, the heat of it easily felt through his boxers, seeming to rise through his own body, prickling across his chest, flushing his cheeks and bringing his cock to full, aching hardness.  
  
Steven rolls his hips again, this time harder and with a little bit of a snap at the end, and Johnny presses back into the movement instinctively. He’s fully awake now, mind racing and body churning with adrenaline and arousal.  
  
It will only lead to difficult places if he thinks of Angie, so he very pointedly doesn’t. Instead he wonders what Steven is dreaming about. He envisions Steven at the show the previous evening; shirtless, crooning elegantly constructed lyrics of sadness and desire Johnny suspects were crafted with him in mind. Their music in the smoky air and the two of them floating through it and orbiting one another, moving together, just as they’re moving now.  
  
Johnny bites his lip to keep from making a sound, and makes silent promises to himself. _If he wakes up now, I'll kiss him,_ A pleasant thrill of terror races through his guts. _I will. If he wakes up._  
  
And then, as if to mock him, Steven sputters in his sleep, coughs... and goes quite still. His breathing changes tempo, artificially smooth and regulated.  
  
“Steven?”  
  
Nothing, not a whisper in return, although Steven’s breath catches and quickens.  
  
“Steven? You awake?”  
  
“Um, no.”  
  
“Steven-”  
  
“Sorry, I’m sorry-” Steven frees his hands from Johnny’s and tries to pull away, all frantic like a sparrow trapped indoors that batters against the window to get free. He gets tangled in the covers and Johnny’s limbs, and when Johnny shifts to help him they find themselves face to face.  
  
Steven freezes, caught. His heart pounds so hard that his pulse jumps in the vein at his temple. Johnny stares into blue eyes panicked and unfocused with sleep, pupils blown wide in the deep grey shadows of pre-dawn. In this light the contours of both their faces seem fluid and simplified. A pillowcase crease runs charmingly across Steven’s cheek, and his hair is mussed like a little boy’s.  
  
“You’re rumpled.” Johnny raises a hand to fix things.  
  
Steven tenses, then slowly moves his head fractionally closer and lets Johnny graze his temple with smooth, hard-calloused fingertips. There is no real effort to tidy or arrange. Johnny’s hand simply falls into Steven’s hair and strokes idly, rhythmically, until Steven starts to relax. Around the shell of Steven’s ear, across the contour of cheek and jaw. He cups the back of Steven’s neck, and Steven brings his own hand up to join it and lace their fingers together once more.  
  
Johnny’s chest aches with desire, and time feels different, slowed down and gathered around them. He doesn’t understand the serenity he feels at this moment, or how it can possibly coexist with the giddiness and confusion surging through his every cell. He knows that Steven must feel the same. Although they’ve been alone together countless times before, they have never shared the same breath like this, held hands or touched each other for this long. Not in earnest, not without a camera pointed at them and a sly, knowing smile on one or both of their faces. They have never held each other’s gaze like this, without shame or embarrassment or distraction breaking their connection.  
  
It terrifies Johnny, because he has felt this way with Angie too, and always believed it was love. But he had also believed that he could only love one person, and now (although his mind skips hurriedly away from the idea before it fully forms) it’s very possible that he loves two. It’s a worrying inconsistency, but his job is to be cool and steady, to balance Steven’s awkwardness and tendency towards drama. This is the way their partnership works. So he swallows what nervousness he can, and decides to ignore the rest.  
  
But before he can do anything, Steven breaks the quiet.  
  
“Please?” A tiny whisper, half catching in his throat. He swallows, then finds his voice. “Um, don’t move.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“You won’t?”  
  
“No,” Johnny smiles, with only faint nervousness. “I’m not moving, promise. But you bloody better, if I’m not allowed to.” He tips his forehead in, brushing his bangs against Steven’s. “S’nothing to be afraid of.”  
  
He leans his face forward the last remaining centimeters and plants a quick, gentle kiss on Steven’s lips. It’s over so fast that he’s not entirely sure he even did it. He stays close, hovering, waiting for some response. Then Steven exhales slowly and deliberately, and carefully kisses him back.  
  
Johnny can feel the moment that Steven tentatively opens his lips to taste the kiss. The feel of it, wet and so intimate, makes Johnny almost swoon. This is good, shockingly good, worth all the guilt that’s crouching just beyond the horizon and waiting to pounce on him when this encounter ends. Johnny’s own lips part to admit Steven’s gently probing tongue and god, he can’t help it when he moans softly and clutches at Steven’s shoulders.  
  
It goes on like this, tasting each other soft and sweet and every once and a while Johnny feels the hot, hard nudge of Steven’s cock against his hip. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to touch it, or if Steven even wants him to. As their kisses deepen it occurs to Johnny that this is the mouth Steven sings with, the mouth that sings their songs, and now his tongue is in it. What’s strange is how much it feels like kissing anyone else. Well, it feels the way kissing should, and not at all strange or wrong in the way he’s always assumed kissing a man would feel. There is stubble on Steven’s jaw. It’s obvious he hasn’t kissed much before, but he’s alright at it. There are awkward moments of oral indecision, confusion about what exactly to do next, so Johnny steers them both, slowing Steven down and speeding him up, nipping at Steven’s lips and tugging gently with his teeth. Each time he shows Steven something new it earns him a little breathy sigh of appreciation, and soon they are both panting raggedly against each other, making noises that should have mortified them both but only serve to stoke the bright, sharp new lust that hangs around them, palpable in the air.  
  
Steven’s hands toy with the hem of Johnny’s t-shirt, moving furtively and shying away from the waistband of his boxers. Johnny leads him again, placing his hands over Steven's and guiding them under his shirt until they move of their own accord.  
  
_Not enough_ , is all Johnny can think. He knows from experience that wriggling out of his shirt mid-snog is near impossible, so he breaks away for a moment, sits up and sheds the thing. And freezes at the raw, undisguised want burning in Steven’s kiss-flushed face.  
  
“Take yours off as well, yeah? Or do you want me to do it?”  
  
“No, I’ll-” Steven jerks away, out of Johnny’s reach, then takes a deep breath and smiles self-consciously. “Sorry. I’ll do it.” He clambers from the bed, stands and pulls the shirt off, then tosses it to the floor and undoes the drawstring to his trousers in one swift motion. He shimmies out of them and the soft cotton pools around his ankles on the floor, which is really all Johnny can focus on at the moment because… Steven is naked. This isn't a game. Johnny is suddenly, terribly aware of Steven's vulnerability in this scenario. He’s loathe to make the wrong move, but he can see that hesitation could cause just as much damage. Steven’s worry flickers just under the surface, his brows drawing close, and his hand steals across his chest, rubs his breastbone nervously. Other than that he doesn’t move. It’s like he’s presenting himself to Johnny to be viewed and evaluated.  
  
Johnny’s not stupid, he’s listened to Steven’s lyrics, he knows that someone somewhere once laughed at this man, made him feel like a fool and confirmed his already strong suspicions that he was ugly and unlovable. Johnny rises off the bed and in one quick movement, snatches Steven’s hand and steers it to his own groin.  
  
“This is how much I want you.” He pushes against Steven’s hand. The warm enveloping pressure, the moist head of his cock rubbing against worn cotton -- it all feels so good that he has to bite his lip.  
  
"Oh-" The smallest tremor courses through Steven's muscles. "Oh!" His hips buck forward and unbalance them both, and he stifles a nervous gasp of laughter. "I don't-" Johnny grinds into Steven’s hand again, and this time Steven lets out a little confused sound and looks at Johnny with awe in his eyes.  
  
Johnny shakes his head. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Skinny, pale, yeah. But like… I dunno, like a statue is.” Steven’s formidable brows are gathering into knots and he opens his mouth to argue, or apologize again, but Johnny carries on.  
  
“No, shhh. Don’t pretend you don’t know it, or can’t understand why someone- why I'd want to see you and touch you.”  
  
He sighs, and leans into Steven’s body.  
  
“‘Cos I do. I want you.”  
  
There is a long silence, and Johnny stays still against Steven’s breast. He thinks Steven might be crying and trying very, very hard to hide it. So he does not raise his cheek or move away. Instead he reaches down, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his own boxers and edges them off his hips and down. Now that he's naked from the waist down as well, he can feel the heat radiating off of Steven. He sways a little, and Steven catches hold of him, and they hold each other in the blue gloom like two teenagers dancing to the last slow song of the night.  
  
Finally Steven’s fingers venture down to stroke the trail of dark hair on Johnny's stomach.  
  
"Christ." Johnny groans softly, rocking into the touch. He catches Steven’s lips and pulls him into a slow, crushing kiss, one that hardly leaves room for breathing. But in the end he has to, and he gasps for air. Steven does too, while his hands move to the places they belong. Over Johnny’s hips and buttocks, exploring without a hint of the doubt that held them back before.  
  
“Want you to hold me, fuck- keep touching me…” Johnny knows he’s not making sense anymore, and wishes he could keep his mouth shut. But he has to let Steven know now that he’s figured it out for himself -- has to let him know how much their bodies belong together. He guides Steven back to bed and pulls them down together, close and clinging in a clumsy tangle of limbs. Steven laughs breathlessly and kisses him again, rolls Johnny onto his back and then drops down out of sight.  
  
“Hey wait, you- !” _You don’t have to do that._ Johnny wants to tell him, but there are hot, wet lips encircling his cock and god, can Steven possibly have him all the way in? He can’t sit up to look but he feels the tip of Steven’s nose brush just below his belly button, and he almost shoots right then as the head of his cock bumps against the back of Stephen’s throat. _He barely knows how to kiss, but he just took all of me in his mouth so what does that mean? Who has he been with, how little do I know about his life?_ Johnny’s head spins with questions, confused noise that all blends into a soft background hiss because the heat, god, the heat of Steven’s mouth is like nothing he’s ever felt. He tries not to move but he can’t stop, he’s pushing for more and his hips come up off the bed to fuck against Steven’s face. Steven’s holding him now, guiding his jerking upward thrusts and pulling back off his throbbing erection, sucking and swirling at the tip while his hand works at the rest. Johnny would marvel at Steven’s smooth coordination if he could see it, but his eyes are screwed shut in a desperate grimace of pleasure as Steven slips his own fingers into his mouth and wets them without once breaking his rhythm. The cool, wet trailing sensation behind his balls makes Johnny uneasy, but at the moment Steven’s fingers breach the crack of his ass Johnny finds himself distracted, carried away from the unfamiliar sensation by the flick and press of Steven’s tongue against the underside of his erection.  
  
There’s a lull of sorts while Steven pumps at his cock with steady, leisurely strokes and works gently at his asshole with a wet fingertip. Johnny guesses that perhaps Steven is waiting for him, waiting to be told what to do. He finds he’s actually a bit scared, but not for any reason he can actually explain. After a few moments of being sucked and massaged, he realizes that the fear is nothing but uncertainty, and that if something doesn’t happen soon he’s likely to fall asleep and piss Steven off beyond all mortal reckoning.  
  
“Go on, then.” he says, his voice shockingly loud in the soft, liquid dark of the room. He touches Steven’s head, strokes lovingly at his hair. “Do it, go ahead.”  
  
Steven lowers his head again to hum sweet acceptance around Johnny's cock, vibrating warmth that eases the press of his finger into Johnny. Full, strangely, alarmingly full, and then Steven moves and the sensation is almost too much, burning and stinging and beautiful all at once. Johnny’s stomach feels hollow and all his attention is focused on the place where Steven is pressing into him, penetrating him. Steven moves inside him with just one finger and takes everything he’s got not to moan and gasp with the feeling of it. Tears well up in his eyes, and he cannot stop thinking about what it would be like if they really fucked. It's enough to make Johnny’s whole head reel with desire and his heart clench with aching guilt, because this is so much more than he thought he would feel. He suspects that to do it even one more time might as well be admitting that he can’t live without this, without Steven’s touch. This is the thought that fills his head as Steven crooks his finger inside him and brushes against something Johnny hadn't realized was there. And he does weep, tears rolling down his cheeks, head turned to the pillow and fingers knotted in Steven’s hair. He cries out and comes, hot and hard, spilling into Steven’s mouth and onto his lips as he pulls away. Johnny sees bright spots of color in the dark, feels his whole body stutter and shake as though a violent storm has knocked his power out and then restarted it.  
  
He needs to feel Steven and hold him close but he can barely move, limbs buzzing and weak. Then Steven is on top of him, the lengths of their sweat-sticky bodies pressed together. Johnny moans, his burnt out lust lit up again by the dirty, needful rhythm of Steven’s hips rolling against his. He’s still a mess of jism and spit below the navel, so Steven’s hard cock glides perfect and wet as he grinds against the joint of Johnny’s hip. He must be almost there, speeding towards orgasm with his head down and mouth moving against Johnny’s shoulder, muttering his devotion and love. Johnny brings his arms up and embraces Steven, cradling him against his chest as he comes with a wordless shout and spurts onto Johnny‘s stomach.  
  
There aren’t any words of course. Not for a while. They lie there together, the humid air around them cooling as their sweat dries and their heartbeats return to a normal rate. They stay silent when Steven rolls off of Johnny, pads off to the bathroom and then cleans them both off with a towel. Neither speaks as they straighten the sheets and blankets, cover up the wet spots and arrange themselves comfortably again, a few inches apart and still naked. Johnny feels the morning coming, and imagines he can see the first hints of sunlight sneaking through the curtains, brightening the room’s blue glow.  
  
He reaches out across the mattress, and Steven’s fingers find his and clasp them tightly. And once again, before he can say anything, Steven breaks the silence.  
  
“Is this-” He stops. “Do you feel this way with Angie, Johnny? Do you feel this much, this alive?”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
But Steven presses on. “Will you think of me now, when you sleep with her? Or will you forget me as easily as you've wiped her from your mind tonight?” His voice is soft and without reproach, as if he’s genuinely curious. “I want to know, tell me.”  
  
Johnny can’t lie.  
  
“I'll. I'll try not to think of it. “  
  
There is a pause, and then Steven speaks with a passion and anger that border on frightening.  
  
“Well, I _never_ stop thinking of you, Johnny. And I never will.”  
  
Johnny can easily make out his face in the growing light, and the hot tears that fall from his eyes.  
  
“I do love you, Steven.”  
  
Steven laughs a quiet, sick little half-chuckle, wiping his cheek. “But you say you love her, too.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Johnny waits for more, anything more from Steven, but there is nothing. He’s ashamed to say anything else, and Steven won’t meet his eye. Finally Johnny’s eyelids begin to droop, and he’s half asleep before he knows it. He must look as though he’s really asleep, because it’s only then that Steven speaks. The words he says are simple, and they are as much a salve to Johnny’s aching heart as they are another wounding blow against it.  
  
“Just you. Just you…”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2007, trying to imagine the kind of encounter that might have inspired songs like I'd Love To and Morrissey's cover of Interlude. My god, the romantic angst. D: It's amazing looking back at this, almost ten years older. Everybody, save all your fanfic forever.


End file.
